As we met the final stretch of the downhill, I let go of my seat muscles and leaned forward, flattening on Orione’s mane. We galloped beside L’Oca. The jutting building was right there, just ahead, there was no way . . .
And then, with a final impossible surge, Orione bolted past L’Oca, threaded his way through the vanishing slice of clear space, and we were still alive.
Alive and in the lead.
La testa!
I saw only the road rising ahead of us and the cheering crowds pressed flat against the walls, risking their lives and ours.
We veered to the right. Hoofbeats thundered in my ears, close behind.
But we were in la testa!
Now the road climbed up toward Le Logge del Papa and the curve left onto Via di Città and into the last third of the race.
We were embraced by the pounding thunder of hoofbeats, surrounded by the cheering of the crowds above us, beside us, all around us. And amid all that, I heard the shattering of crockery, a flowerpot, on the street behind me. Was that an accident, or was it aimed at someone? It didn’t matter. All thought was lost in the thunder as we battled through the turn onto Via di Città. I caught a glimpse of the tower of the Duomo rising above the city’s roofs.
Focus, Virginia!
A sharp whistle. The repeated thwack of a whip.
L’Oca on the right! He pushed next to me, his nerbo smacking his horse and then Orione. Then I felt the whip across my hands and the reins.
All is fair in the Palio.
“No!” I shouted.
I saw the buildings flashing by, a glimpse of Via Fontebranda. I heard my Padrino’s voice, “Almost too late!” We were at the fatal curve, the shadowed corner where the Palazzo Cervini jutted out into Via di Città.
A horse I dearly loved died right here.
L’Oca was on my right, still lashing at me with his whip. Montone was hard on my left, shoulder to shoulder.
“Narrows!” I screamed.
I kicked Orione with my right foot, pulling sharply on my left rein. We ran hard against Montone, making him bounce away, staggering for a stride.
L’Oca slipped into the space I had occupied a blink of an eye before. The fantino screamed in agony as his arm and leg scraped the wall.
I had let him live. But now I saw the light blue and white of Onda on my left—where had he come from!—forcing his way between Montone and me.
The road to the Palazzo Chigi was a hard uphill. Orione heaved ragged breaths under me. I could hear the roaring breath of L’Oca and Onda as we galloped toward the gleaming white palace.
A riderless horse came up on our left side. Montone’s fantino had come off in the battle with Onda.
We made the sweeping right toward the last stretch of uphill, toward the final corner. The hard right turn onto Via del Capitano, then the final sprint to the Duomo.
The afternoon sun was fierce, beating down on the white marble of the Duomo and the crowds at the finish line. Just above, on the terraces of the de’ Medici Palazzo, looking out over the Piazza del Duomo, sat the granduca and granduchessa. Bianca Cappello tried in vain to cool herself, her fan beating the air with the velocity of a hummingbird’s wing.
“Bring me another glass of wine,” she snapped to her lady-in-waiting. “This heat is barbaric.”
Secretary Serguidi slipped out onto the balcony.
“The horses should be approaching any moment, my granduca.”
“Are we ready?” asked the granduca, his voice low.
“Sì,” said Serguidi. They both stared down Via del Capitano to the sharp curve, the late sunlight casting a pool of shadow.
Giacomo di Torreforte was among the nobili gathered at Piazza di Postierla, at the corner of Via del Capitano. He stood as close as he dared to the canvas barricade. He heard the hoofbeats an instant before the horses came into sight.
The villanella was in the lead!
L’Oca and Onda were riding hard, close behind on either side. But as they fought their way up Via di Città, the black stallion pulled ahead.
Out of the corner of his eye, di Torreforte saw two men on the flag-draped balcony of the building at the apex of the turn. Their heads disappeared as they quickly crouched out of sight. As Orione entered the hard right corner, the men reappeared, their shoulders working in unison.
Three large planks sailed down, clattering into the street.
“No!” di Torreforte shouted.
The men disappeared inside the dark room behind the balcony.
Later, I thanked God. But right then there was no time to pray, no time to think. Orione raised his head. I caught a glimpse of the nobility—the ladies in finery under the shade of fluttering awnings; the men crowded tight, cheering their contradas.
Then I saw something. There! What? Boards! Just in front of me! Clattering to the street. I clung to Orione’s mane as he leapt. I felt the two of us lift up and over, flying, weightless.
We cleared the first two boards. There was no room for a stride before the third.
Orione fought to keep his footing, then lost that battle. I went down with Orione, clinging to his back as he stumbled on his forehand.
Women screamed. Men shouted. And somehow in that swirl of noise and panic and color and fear, I saw one single face clear in the crowd: Giacomo di Torreforte standing close enough to touch. And in that same instant, I heard Giorgio’s voice. “He will stop at nothing to see us fail.”
Faces and voices disappeared as Orione scrambled to his feet in the instant that L’Oca and Onda raced past. We pushed on, galloping toward the piazza and the towering marble Duomo. But I felt the change in his gait, and my gut sank.
The shadows of Via del Capitano were a tunnel between what could have been and what now had to happen. In the distance, I could hear the roaring crowd, see the sun dazzling on the marble cathedral, glimpse the flap of the drappellone just ahead. I pressed my face close to Orione’s mane, letting his head free to gallop the last strides of the race.
We emerged into the bright light of the piazza and the roar of the crowds, the flap of banners, the whistles and cheers. We raced hard to catch the sweating flanks of L’Oca, never reaching Onda. Onda had come out of nowhere to take first, L’Oca second. I pulled Orione into a circle, trying to avoid running down a Senese. I slid off Orione, my hands already on his left fetlock as my boots hit the ground.
He flinched at my touch, raising his foot. A Drago contradaiolo took his reins.
“We will take care of him, Virginia. We will treat him like a king.”
“Soak his foot in cold water. Send for Cesare Brunelli. I think he broke a bone—he—”
The next thing I knew, I was raised above the ground on the hands and shoulders of a throng of dragaioli.
“La villanella! La villanella!”
“But she lost!” exploded Granduca Francesco, dashing his crystal wine goblet to the ground. An attendant scurried to pick up the shards.
“These Senese morons!” roared the granduca. “Why this jubilation? The shepherdess did not win!”
He looked down at the girl, lifted in the air above the crowd as they roared.
“La villanella! La villanella!”
He saw Drago’s barbaresco lead the limping Orione away, surrounded by dragaioli.
“Serguidi! Summon di Torreforte at once,” snapped the granduca.
“Sì, Serenissimo!”
“Where did she get that horse?” said the granduca, turning to Governor di Montauto, thinking he already knew the answer.
“I believe that horse has always belonged to her, Granduca,” the governor said, watching the girl be jostled in the waning sun of the afternoon. “They were born for each other.”
CHAPTER 64
Siena, Pugna Hills
AUGUST 1581
I sat on a stool beside Zio’s pallet, stroking his hand as I recounted the Palio. He was too weak to move, and he could not speak. But he hung on every word I said, the flickering candle reflecting in his eyes.
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“We would have won, Orione and I. He was so bold, so swift and nimble. You should have seen him move past L’Oca, charging ahead!”
Zio could not smile, but I saw the glint of light move in the shadow of his eyes like a bright fish.
“Ah! But the boards spooked him. Such treachery. I know who did it. I am certain—”
I stopped, hearing a commotion at the door and the sound of a carriage outside our hovel.
“She is in there,” I heard Zia Claudia say. “She will not go willingly, mind you!”
A spark of fear widened Zio’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but no word came. Only the silent echo of a scream.
Giacomo di Torreforte ducked his head to avoid the low beam as he entered the house. He was accompanied by a big man in coachman’s garb. I saw Zia Claudia beyond him, shaking a bag that sounded with the heavy clink of gold coins in her sooty hands.
“Forgive me, Giovanni,” she said, her fingers clutching the bag. She pushed past the two men. “I cannot raise this wild girl alone.”
Zio struggled to rise, to speak. But he lay paralyzed, his eyes blinking.
The coachman grabbed me, tossing me over his shoulder. I pounded my fists against his back, my feet kicking hard until he pinned them tight against his chest.
“Tie her up,” said Signor di Torreforte. “Put her in the coach facing backward. I will sit opposite.”
As the big man turned to carry me out the door, I heard di Torreforte address my zio. “You will never know what a favor I do here today, Giovanni Tacci,” he said. “She will always be Siena’s heroine. Not even the de’ Medici can take away that honor. Not ever.”
I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t breathe.
The world went black.
PART V
Ferrara
ANNI 1581–1582
CHAPTER 65
Tuscan Countryside
AUGUST 1581
“We have never been formally introduced, Virginia Tacci,” he said. “I am Giacomo Giovanni di Torreforte,” he said, bowing in the cramped quarters of the coach. “We are about to make a very long journey together.”
I was sore and dusty, choking on the gag in my mouth. The straps on my arms and legs bit into my skin as I struggled. And struggle I did. The gag was soaked with my saliva as I tried to scream.
To curse Giacomo di Torreforte, my kidnapper.
The coach drove for two days, bumping along dusty roads. Fat flies clung to the linen curtains, light brown dust gathering on their wings. Between my sweat and my captor’s, the cabin stunk.
Giacomo di Torreforte sat across from me, dressed in expensive traveling clothes. He darted glances at me but would not look me in the eye.
I tried to kick him, but my legs were secured to the coach seat.
“Stop struggling,” he said. “It will do you no good. We are now beyond Siena’s old territories, even beyond Florence’s. No one knows you. You’d best learn to accept your fate.”
Of course I could not answer him. More saliva soaked the gag.
“If you calm down, I will allow you to eat and drink. I had some particularly good Chianti wine, but I drank it all, I am afraid. But we still have salami, cheeses, and bread, all from excellent sources.”
I tried to kick again at him.
“You mustn’t kick me. I have to appear fresh when I go about my business on our arrival. I am negotiating your future, Virginia.”
I opened my eyes wide.
“Ah, I have your attention. Yes, my business concerns you. And believe me or not, you should be grateful. You are still alive because of my intervention.”
I stared at him with hatred. A crow cawed outside, and I saw it launch heavily from its perch on a plane tree into the air.
My future? Where was he taking me?
I had heard of women sold to the Ottoman sultans to become part of their harem. Was I kidnapped to be bartered among the foreign savages?
What enemies did I have?
I heard a hard thumping on the back of the coach. The coachman pulled to an abrupt stop. Billowing dust engulfed the coach.
“What the devil?” shouted di Torreforte. He pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief over his nose to block the dust.
“The stones and ruts in the road have bounced the dowry chest loose. I must lash it down again.”
Dowry chest?
I shook my head, my eyes wide.
“There is business we could discuss if you were not so agitated and savage, Virginia.”
He bent forward to untie my gag. His face grew disgusted with the effort. He took a dagger from his waistband. The metal flashed near my cheek.
Di Torreforte saw my eyes follow the blade. He let the knife linger there.
“Just so we understand each other, Virginia,” he said. “I come on the granduca’s business. I follow orders—had the de’ Medici henchmen taken you themselves, I doubt you would have survived.”
If Granduca Francesco could murder his own family, he would think nothing of ridding himself of a Senese peasant.
“No one knows where we are traveling. You could be easily disposed of here and now. Death leaves no wagging tongues. But, thanks to my insistence, the granduca has other more . . . Christian . . . plans for you.”
He slipped the knife through the knot of the gag. The wet linen fell to my lap. My mouth moved like a fish’s gasping for air.
I struggled to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
Di Torreforte turned his attention to the hamper of food.
“Where are you taking me?” I finally managed to say.
“It is best you do not know. Somewhere you will be safe, but where no one will find you.”
“Safe? How could I ever be safe in your hands?” I said. “Or the granduca’s?”
Di Torreforte shook his head. “You do not understand, Virginia. When we reach our destination, not even de’ Medici hands can reach you.”
I eyed him, still working my sore mouth and jaw.
“A cup of wine, Virginia? The wines of Ferrara may not be up to Tuscan standards, but that is what the village had to offer us.”
“Ferrara? Why are we here?”
“Later you will have time to contemplate that. You will have an abundance of time to . . .” He looked away. “. . . reflect,” he said at last.
“Please give me wine—and water. Acqua! I am so thirsty.”
“Water? I will have to stop the coachman for water. He has buckets for the horses.” He gestured at the stream that ran beside road. “You do not mind sharing your drink with horses?”
How many times had I bent over the water troughs, drinking beside horses?
“It does not matter. Per favore. Water,” I pleaded, my voice raspy with thirst.
“You are indeed a horsewoman.”
Di Torreforte rapped his fist against the roof of the coach. The horses slowed to a stop.
“Sì, signore? Your desire?” said the footman, blinking in the swirling dust.
“I need to get out for a moment. Let the horses rest here. You may accompany our visitor to the trees if she needs to make water. Unbind her hands so that she may lift her skirt. But keep a tight grip on her arm. Never mind her precious modesty. I wager our little shepherdess could outrun you.”
My captor descended from the coach, stretching his arms over his head languidly.
“And fill a jug with water from the stream. Virginia Tacci is thirsty.”
He did not look back as he strode away from the coach, down to the stream to refresh himself from the choking dust.
We traveled until late at night, when di Torreforte rapped on the roof for the driver to stop.
I heard their conversation outside the coach.
“The horses must rest,” di Torreforte said. “They need at least eight hours grazing and their fill of water before they are harnessed again.
“Daniele, stay here and keep an eye on the girl,” he said. Taking one of the driving lanterns with him, he walked toward the h
orses. He ran his hand over their heads, neck, withers, legs. He picked up their hooves, inspecting them with an experienced eye.
“Daniele, where is the doctoring kit?” he asked, coming back to us. “I’ll need the lamb’s wool and camphor. Poggibonsi has a bad sore under her harness.”
“Sì, signore. Everything is in the box.”
“Well, unharness the horses and lead them down to the stream. Only let them drink to the count of twenty-five. Then let them graze. After our repast, we will let them drink their fill. I do not want a case of colic, do you hear me?”
The footman nodded. “Sì, signore.”
“Go ahead, then. Leave a good knife so I can cut the lamb’s wool to fit the wound.” He grabbed my arm. “You come with me, villanella.” I stumbled down to the stream, lying flat on the bank and lowering my mouth to the sweet water.
“You drink like an animal,” he said, looking down at me.
I finished drinking and wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist.
“You behave more bestially than any animal I have known,” I said.
Except for your care with horses. How can a man who cares so much about horses be so cruel to humankind?
I thought of how his fingertips had traced the mare’s withers, how he whispered to her.
What kind of man is he?
“Why has the granduca kidnapped me?” I asked.
He hesitated for a moment. The trill of the crickets filled the silence.
“Since you rode the Palio, you have become a symbol for Siena,” he said at last. “A dangerous symbol. Your disappearance will cool the revolutionary fires. Your flame will flicker and die out.”
“Will you then let me return to Siena?”
Di Torreforte looked away abruptly. “I do not know. These matters with the de’ Medici are not so reversible. And your aunt, whose roof has sheltered you all these years, has given written permission to keep you where you will be safe. Away from revolutionaries, foolish men—”
The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany Page 26
